Indiana Jones and other Outtakes from The Elite
by Fate.of.Gabriel
Summary: Multiple extra scenes with varying POV's from the story The Elite.
1. Indiana Jones Fantasy

**A/N: You may want to download the Indiana Jones theme. Just sayin ******

**Deleted Scene: **

_"Are you ever going to tell me anything more about yourself than your dream of being a composer playing in some coffee bar and writing brilliant undiscovered ballads while looking like a homeless man who actually is sitting on a trust fund the size of Cambodia?" I ask impulsively. Edward looks surprised. _

_"Did I tell you about how I want to steal all the school's football trophies and melt them down to scrap and then re-sculpt them into the shape of a giant phallus?" _

_"Yes."_

_"Then I'm out."_

_"How about you tell me about one of your favorite fantasies while I get you off?"_

_Edward's eyebrow cocked heavily. "Is this going to lead to sex? Are you, Mary Alice Brandon, asking me, Edward Anthony Cullen, for sex?"_

_"No. I was thinking this might lead to me getting you off and then maybe I'll let you return the favor." _

_Edward was already stripping off his uniform shirt. I smirked and made my way to the bed, planting myself in the dead center on my back._

_I stared up at the plaster ceiling as I heard him undress. Then I felt his hands tugging at my yoga pants until he wrangled them off my legs. _

_His body weight fell onto the bed, making me bounce slightly. His hand curled around my hip and his hair was flopping in his face again. _

_"Ok, so we're treasure hunters in the middle east, like in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark'? I'm Harrison Ford and you're..."_

Edward's leg was hitched over my thigh as he took my hand and literally shoved it down his pants.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek as I found him, still soft, but I could practically feel the buzzing of electricity and hormones rushing south.

"Ok, so we're treasure hunters in the middle east, like in 'Raiders of the Lost Arc'? I'm Harrison Ford and you're..." Edward cut himself off and looked intensely thoughtful for a moment, before rolling onto the back and rummaging through the nightstand next to his bed.

And I, because my hand was trapped in a penis-prison, went with him.

I tried to move to give him room, but a flick of his wrist on top of his pants stilled my fingers.

"Rub." He said simply and then went back to rooting through the drawer.

My lips quirked as I obediently began to massage his balls and watch as he pilfered through music magazines, porn magazines featuring "Juggs", guitar picks, pens and pencils, an Ipod, a cell phone charger, the novel we were reading in American Literature, a finger nail clipper, some lube, a couple of key chains, and finally he held up a skinny remote control triumphantly.

"And here. But for God's sake, rub your hands first. That shit is _cold_."

The bottle of lube was tossed at my chest and I stared at it expectantly.

"Am I allowed to remove my hand?" I asked pointedly.

Edward rolled his eyes and leaned back on an elbow, simultaneously giving me enough room to move my hand from the confines of his once perfectly pressed school pants, while aiming the small remote at his stereo system.

The blue digital lights flickered on and the sound of some indie band filtered through for a couple of seconds before Edward clicked his remote and Fire Arcade began.

Huh. Never would have thought Edward as that type of guy.

The next click brought the recording of last year's orchestra's state competition piece, and the one after that was noise I couldn't discern. It sounded like someone had stuck a burning rag into a soprano throat and told her to perform the aria from _Madame Butterfly_.

About a dozen clicks later Edward finally set down the remote and got comfortable once more by draping himself all over my body. His face was buried in my chest and his leg was over my hip, and his hands were palming the globes of my ass.

It felt like a body pillow, or possibly a safety blanket.

And then I recognized the music.

Bum de bum BUM! Da duh da!

I should be canonized for not bursting out laughing.

At least he wasn't asking me to put on a gold bikini.

"You can be Marion. And it's the scene where Indy is trying to steal the Nazi plane and there's that monster of a guy in the way and we're trying to save the world from Hitler long before World War II ever happened…"

His voice was just…mesmerizing. It was soft and full of sex; yet I could see the boy peeking out from beneath those lashes that were currently shielding green eyes entranced by music, his own voice, and my nipples, which were now visible since he had yanked down my bra to my waist.

And then I was there. In Cairo, in the 1930's, trapped in a Nazi plane, watching the daring, sexy as hell man in a hat try to best a Goliath of a man (who, interestingly enough, looked a lot like sweaty, shirtless Emmett in my imagination).

The music swelled and Edward's voice broke through my reverie again.

"Harder Alice." It was a guttural whisper, a clear break in his startlingly descriptive narrative.

I was having a hard time getting a good angle with the constraints of the pants and the way he was curled around me.

"Ugh—pants." I poked him the chest with my non-lubed hand as I tightened my grip ever so carefully and felt him tense in response before going boneless again.

The little tremors of power shooting through my own body at seeing him so turn-on by Indiana Jones of all things was making me wet and squirmy, even without the boy parts pressed against me.

I poked again when I received no response.

"Uh, o—kay." Edward muttered, but then, instead of releasing me from his full body-bind, he tightened his limbs around me and shoved his hips forward into my hand.

His breathing was picking up, right in time with a crescendo of brass instruments.

… "He was big, but he wasn't a smart fighter. I knew I was going to win, knew I was going to get you out of that hellish desert, but then I smelt the gas."

I shuddered silently as his lips sucked on my collar bone and my hand tightened unintentionally.

Abruptly Edward rolled.

He took me with him (how could he not? I was imprisoned by well tailored fabric?) on a deep groan that had me toppling onto his lean frame as he laid on his back and raised one hand to clench in the pillows behind him.

"We're not…mother of hell…not at this part yet."

But his hips were moving with my hand and grinding into the bed. He wanted more, but apparently we were no longer following whatever perverse script he had imagined.

Indeed, our increased pace did not match the suddenly low-key wind instruments, but to hell with it anyway.

Edward was getting off on this, **I** was getting off on this, Steven fucking Spielberg would get off on this if he had ever thought that his nerdy superhero adventurer would be responsible for getting teenagers everywhere laid, and laid well.

My hand let go and I saw his eyes pop open in surprise as I situated myself over him and moved my mouth right next to his ear.

"Then Indy realizes that he and Marion are out of time. The fire's already exploded a couple of tanks and it's heading right to the plane where Marion is trapped."

I licked a long line down and then back up the straining muscles of his neck as his beautiful head is thrown back in defeat taking advantage of his temporary silence to run a hand over his body as I continue the story for him.

My hips roll against his without mercy for his current sensitive state. He bites his lips and I nip at his jaw as his erection bobs against my hips at a deep, hard grind.

The pace is unbearably quick, and I worry when I see his cheeks flush bright red that maybe he can't take it.

Maybe this isn't the fantasy.

But then his hands are all over my ass again, and I smile and continue my experiment with the flavor of his skin.

"Then what?" He rumbles, eyes still shut tightly.

Then what?

Oh damn.

The story.

Indy has a heroine to save.

"Indy may not be bigger than the giant, but he's smarter. He can't get to the gun, but it's not important anymore. All he cares about is saving Marion. The rest of the world can go to hell."

The music was peaking again.

Edward's groans of appreciation sound like perfect harmony, even though to anyone else's ears, it would be a cacophony of juxtaposing sounds.

The triumph of Indy.

The triumph of Alice as I continue to bait him closer to the edge.

I shudder and fight back a little mini-orgasm of my own. Apparently having the upper hand does it for me.

"It's a bloody end, b-but he doesn't even notice how red splashes everywhere, on the side of the plane, on the front of his shirt. Marion is…out of time and Indy just barely manages to get her out of the place before the entire place goes up in flames---oh my."

Too late. The story would have to end another day.

I break off the flow of words and feel my body react to the constant auditory and kinesthetic stimulation—not to mention of one Edward Anthony Cullen writing on the bed as he watched me get off.

And somewhere, in the back of my mind, I'm reeling over the fact that I was just dry-humped to orgasm.

He's a minute behind me and we are a sweaty heap of flushed limbs when I finally return to the land of the higher-functioning.

Edward takes a few more minutes, but when his eyes open and I can see more dark pupil than I can green orb, I smile at him and pick up the remote, turning down the theme music until its background noise with our audible gasps for air.

"'s…good." Edward mumbles sleepily and rolls over to his usual spot on the bed, raising his hands to clap twice.

The room is suddenly plunged into darkness, which is just enough for me to stimulate my senses enough to ask.

"_Dude_, you have the Clapper?"


	2. Arsenic and Old Flames

_**A/N: Takes place between Chapter 23 and Chapter 24, which is right after the disastrous dinner in which Alice finds our Esme was sleeping with Carlisle, Esme finds out Rosalie is who she's been replaced with as the Pervfessor's bootay-call, and Rosalie finds out that Esme is the woman who was in Carlisle's house (and bed) right before Thanksgiving. Got it?**_

Esme POV

My parent's car hadn't even pulled out of the restaurant's parking lot before I unleashed the sheer amount of fury I had been holding in since about an hour earlier.

When the guy I had been occasionally sleeping with since grad school had let himself slip in a way that I had never known perfectionist, careful to a fault with every last syllable and vowel, Connor Carlisle to slip up.

Ever.

"_Rosalie is quite gifted. I have no doubt schools all over country will be recruiting her for their math programs."_

It was a perfectly teacherly thing to say, as far as teachers go.

The emotion and the sheer look of…I don't even want to put a word on what it was burning in those blue eyes…that was something entirely un-teacherly.

He couldn't love her.

Couldn't.

Wasn't even remotely possible.

She was sixteen.

Gorgeous and filled out in ways most girls paid for, yes.

But capable of holding a man's attention through means other than sex. No.

So the obvious conclusion is that they were having sex.

Illegal, statutory rape, sex.

My brother's biggest fantasy girl and the guy I trusted to scratch an itch with discretion whenever I happened to need a little itch-scratching.

And the weird thing was, I didn't know who to be mad at, or to be mad at all.

Fury at Connor seemed foremost. He was, after all, very much aware of how ladies found him to be. He was no less than charming and devastatingly good-looking; a good man from a good east coast family that while not rich, had raised an honest, kind man with a dedicated work-ethic and a talent for numbers.

But also anger at Rosalie.

Rosalie who was so content to be jaded, who I could see going after Connor simply for the status and for the challenge. Sixteen she may be, but she liked to pretend she was not.

And then there was some anger at my brother. How ignorant he could be of the people he chose to idolize. No doubt if he ever found out about this he would probably turn into even more of a hermit.

Damn him for putting people up on a pedestal and then expecting them to stay there.

Not that I personally would ever choose Rosalie Hale to be on a pedestal, she enjoyed knocking people down so much herself.

And there was also betrayal.

I had seen Alice's eyes. Seen the guilty, tense expression on that pert little face.

She knew, had known.

She should have told me.

Not because of Connor, but because of Edward.

Someone needed to tell Edward that Rosalie wasn't for him. Someone needed to tell him before Rosalie knocked him down with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

So many people to be upset at.

So many people who had emotions riding on the whims of a sixteen year old with a superiority complex, and a man who had never (to my knowledge) come even close to toeing the line between right and wrong.

I started with Connor.

"Please tell me you are not sleeping with your sixteen year old student."

Carlisle stared straight ahead and told me nothing.

"Because, if you _were_ sleeping with a student who was sixteen, I'd have to guess that student's name is Rosalie Hale. Rosalie Hale, whose father is a senator and could send you to jail for violating his very under eighteen daughter, even though if the judge was a male, I'm sure he would understand the compulsion. "

I smacked him hard on the shoulder to drive home the point.

"Keep both hands on the wheel Esme."

"Don't give me that horseshit! Forget about jail—how about your career? How about the hundreds of thousands of dollars that have been thrown your way because people thought you were going to be somebody. A scientist, a great professor, a doctor. What about those people? What will they think when they see your name in the headlines? Or meet your twinkie of a girlfriend at the staff Christmas party? This is Rosalie, she's taking her SAT's this spring."

His jaw tightened even more firmly.

"How could you possibly be so thick-headed? How do you know she hasn't been bragging to all her friends that she's sleeping with a teacher…for that matter, how do you know she isn't going to turn around and get you fired the minute you get tired of her sixteen-year-old enthusiasm and naïveté to fulfill all your dirty little fantasies?"

"Eyes on the road."

"You should know better. Of all the sick and twisted and dirty stories that get told about men and their secretaries…husbands trading in their wives for younger models…do you really want to be part of that crowd? Have to endure those people talking about you like you're trash? Because we both know you aren't. You are almost frustrating in the levels of sheer intellectual brilliance you possess, and to add onto your sins, women pretty much choke on their tongues whenever you come 'round. You could have anything you wanted, not like me or any of the people at St. Olaf's. They, we can have what we want because our parents settle ridiculously large sums of money on our heads to give us whatever we want. There's no reason to want anything, or have to work for anything. No reason to have goals. When did you become a person who gave up your goals to dally with someone who has none?"

"Are you quite finished?"

I wasn't, but his tone was icier than I had ever heard it, and I don't think heaping any more guilt and disappointment would help my cause anymore tonight.

"If this was some sort of dare, or prank, or bet, it would have ended a long time ago. Rosalie would have won a long time ago, even if I wasn't sleeping with her. But I am. And I don't particularly care if you want to blackball me from society, I wouldn't go back and change anything, except perhaps to give in a little sooner. If someone had noticed her sooner, if someone had shown her some sort of respect outside of the respect so many people have for her exterior shell, then maybe she wouldn't have spent last year getting herself addicted to heroin, sleeping with people for the sake of feeling anything other than scorn, and failing classes she didn't need to be taking in the first place. If someone would have stopped for one goddamn second to see the brain that hides behind the body, then maybe she wouldn't be as damaged as she is. Maybe she wouldn't need a teacher who is ten years older than her to make her believe she's worth something more than a brand-name label and a size D bra."

The words hit me and they sunk in slowly, but the lasting impression I would have of that moment, the one I would think about for a long time, was the pain in his voice when talked about Rosalie's self-perception of herself.

It was a Rosalie I certainly didn't recognize, but didn't doubt that every word he said was true.

Such a cliché, for the beautiful girl to be so self-conscious. If I wasn't mired in this sandtrap, I'd be rolling my eyes at how after school special it was.

But I couldn't, because of the way he spoke about Rosalie, and the amount of sadness there in his face, the same sadness that had caused him to reveal himself over dinner.

We were almost to his place, and we were quiet.

And I went back to my original question, the one I had apparently dismissed too carelessly.

"Do you love her?"

He inhaled sharply.

"Damn you Esme, will you take a page from your mother's book and learn to beat around the damn bush for once?"

I didn't even blink. "No."

I was like my father in that regard, one of the few ways we were similar.

Carlisle sighed and closed his eyes, head falling back against the headrest.

"Do I imagine getting down on one knee and asking her to be my wife, and the mother of my children? No. Do I imagine taking her out to dinner and holding doors open for her and pulling out her chair? No. Do I dream of seeing her sitting in one of our old classrooms in front of Doctor Stevens, proofing complex theories and wearing my old Dartmouth sweatshirt? Yes. Do I sleep with her as often as I possibly can? Of course. Do I want what's best for her. More than I want what's best for me anymore. So do I love her? Yes. Do I desire her? Yes. But is it the kind of love your parent's keep hoping inviting me to family birthday parties and summer barbeques will foster between us? No. It's something else entirely."

I couldn't help the sneer appearing on my face.

Carlisle and I were never going to end up married. I had dated a complete hobo during my formative college years, and when I finally stumbled into his bed, I knew it wasn't permanent. Our goals were going in opposite directions. His was taking him into the society I was escaping from. Neither of us liked to compromise and despite my parent's greatest hopes, I continued to date a world of photographers, artists, actors, and free-spirits.

Carlisle had ended up dating someone who needed his help; the very reason he had turned to teaching in the first place.

A warped student-teacher bond.

Carlisle's bleeding heart vulnerability for anyone who needed to be saved with a little compassion manipulated into something else entirely, something they were both misconstruing to be love.

And while some of the anger was edging away, the anger that remained still burned hotly.

"And what happens when she's done at Olaf's? Or when someone finds out? What happens when both your lives are shot to hell and deemed failures because you couldn't accurately separate the line between student and lover? What happens to Rosalie then? When you can't protect her from the people who will mock her, or the law which will separate you two by force if it comes to that?"

Carlisle turned tired eyes on me, shaking his head as I pulled into his driveway.

"I know it's not right, but I stopped caring about what people will say or do when she came to me in the middle of the night last year, bruised and lost and desperate. I will stay with her until she' ready to go it on her own, or until she tells me to leave. She needs somebody."

He got out of the car without waiting for my response.

"That's not good enough!" I yelled, but he just unlocked his door and left it open as he disappeared inside of his house.

And I, because I had somehow found myself in the middle of this horror love story, shut off the car and followed him inside, still burning.


	3. Because I grew up in the south

Outtake #3: Jalice

Note: This is ENTIRELY out of context in terms of The Elite, and I originally wrote this as part of the interlude in what would have been the summer between Alice's sophomore and junior years of school. This was a character-building task for me, but now I've added to it to make it a proper outtake for those of you who show me so much love, even when I'm having characters who aren't canon do dirty, dirty things to one another 

_**Because I grew up in the south…**_

Texas was a funny place.

Large, obviously, though everyone used the word "big."

But I thought of it as large.

Enormous really.

The cities, the numerous, spread out hotbeds of activity were a surprise. They had skyscrapers, just like every other city in America, and they had style.

You could be in Houston and think it was Los Angeles if Houston could somehow implant palm trees.

But less than twenty miles outside the cities and it felt like you had fallen into the "Land of the Lost".

In every direction there was raw brown earth sparsely populated by tufts of waning green and livestock.

Houses, much less towns, were spread apart, like people in Texas truly appreciated the gift of space.

Room to breathe, space to exhale.

The sky seemed closer for some reason.

Like it was an optical illusion of some sort; like the blueness of it was bearing down at a great speed, before stopping several feet above my head.

I felt like I could hear the rumbling of a truck, the call of a friendly voice, the complaint of an animal from a very long distance away.

The stars were so large here in Texas that I was almost afraid of them that first night.

That first night, when instead of taking me to dinner or a move or even a county fair, he tugged me into an old pickup that the floor was literally falling out of, and tuned in the only radio station that would come in, a country western oldies station as he pressed me up against him on the long bench seat, driving on his own man-made path through the acres and acres of bumpy, rough-shod land.

And when we got there, I just knew that 'there' was where he had meant to stop, though it was closer to nowhere than it was to anywhere.

He hummed almost silently along with the radio, a tune I didn't recognize.

He didn't turn off the truck, just opened the door and slid me out on his side, arm wrapped around my waist until my feet hit uneven earth.

"Careful. Don't want to step in anything."

Oh.

Ew.

Thankfully we weren't going very far. Jasper unhooked the tail wagon of the truck and motioned for me to climb into the truck bed.

There was a sleeping bag opened and spread out over the chipped tan colored metal, and a few blankets folded up in the corner that were plaid, to be used as pillows I supposed.

I obliged and climbed up on my knees, stopping when I felt both of his hands palm my ass with his long, firm fingers and groan deep in his throat, the sound seeming that much more pained in the silence of the summer night.

He reluctantly let me go and climbed up with me. We awkwardly fitted ourselves on the flatbed, me on my back looking up at the sky and Jasper leaning on his side, propped up on his elbow.

"I like you in jeans." He said, plucking at one of my belt loops, not meeting my eyes.

"Better than a tie and panty hose?" I asked with a smile, staring up at the stark contrast.

White bulb of light, the navy felt of the sky. The occasional wisp of cloud, like God was having a cigarette and blowing smoke out over the universe.

I guess you can only smoke outside in heaven too.

Jasper toyed with my faded purple t-shirt, fingering the almost see-through material, I had worn it for so long.

"Where are all the cows?"

Jasper's family was cattle ranchers predominantly, though his father apparently had an MBA in global economics from Princeton.

"They would have bolted the minute they heard the Ford coming. Cows spook easy."

So do teenage girls who suddenly find themselves in the middle of nowhere, in the back of a truck, getting naked with a boy who was leaning down to kiss the underside of my jawbone as his hands slid under my shirt.

I shivered and helped him pull off my shirt.

Jasper rose up on his knees as he pulled the shirt over my head.

Even in the dark I could see his eyes narrow and melt.

"Don't move a muscle."

And then I was naked in the back of his truck bed, and he was on his knees between my parted legs, barely touching me except for the slightest brush of his fingers in my frizzy hair, and his lips on mine.

His kisses weren't light, but they weren't hard. They weren't teasing, nor were they possessive or claiming.

His tongue would lick deep and he would coax my jaw open be degrees, before finding a new part of me to tantalize. He nipped at my bottom lip and kissed my chin and seduced me through sheer anticipation alone.

I was addicted to every new place he found to worship.

There wasn't a part of him that wasn't honey-colored and brown. The skin beneath the usual line of his jeans was lighter, but still golden, still bronzed with sunshine.

My fingers itched.

I pulled as hard as I could, and he came crashing down into me.

I exhaled harshly as his skin connected with mine, starting with our stomachs, and our chests, and followed by our legs. Jasper caught himself with his arms on either side of my head.

"Jesus Alice." His voice was in my ear as his hips shifted, the sloped reality of his erection bobbing against my thigh. "There's not a patient bone in your body, is there?"

And without waiting for a reply, he began to suck on the skin beneath my ear, nipping lightly on the lobe, taking one of my legs and wrapping it high around his hip.

I followed suit with the other leg and tried to raise my hips off the bed of the truck, trying to wriggle onto him.

He caught my chin and jerked my head up to meet his.

I laid there, poised on the brink, staring into dark eyes that were bottomless.

His face was harsh.

"If we do this, it needs to stop. This thing with me and Edward and Emmett…all that drama with Rosalie. It stops the moment I get inside you. I want that to be perfectly clear—once we do this, I'm not going to stop doing it. This." He cupped my ass to pull me tighter against his cock, causing me to whimper. "This is mine alone. I don't share."

One of his hands had moved down to tease me with the tip, running it along my clit and lower, eyes never wavering even though mine glanced down in the dark to try and see what he was doing to me.

I felt like I was going to pass out, or come before he had even started having sex with me.

He hit a particularly sensitive spot and I jerked hard against him, gritting my teeth. But it didn't matter, because the choice had been taken away from us both.

I had shifted my hips and he had slid in without hesitation. And now he was buried deep and shaking.

Shaking.

I was in heaven and Jasper, who could looks so irritatingly angelic if he wanted, suddenly looked like he was in hell, jaw tight and eyes fixed on the curve of the tire in the metal frame of the truck.

I touched his locked arm, which was holding his weight above me.

"Jasper?"

He looked at me, eyes darting to mine again, and he groaned.

A groan of defeat, a groan of pain and pleasure mixed deep, a groan of acceptance.

He came down to his elbows and took my mouth.

Took it.

Booked no quarter, ignored all niceties.

He plunged deep into my mouth and his groans were muffled as his body jerked upwards into mine.

My legs clutched him tighter, fingers dug into his broad shoulders, feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

By the sheer overwhelming presence of him.

I couldn't even fight the tide, I came before he had even gotten a good dozen thrusts in. Just flew off into the night sky and left him behind as I whimpered and writhed and pleaded, all mutely.

He still had my mouth and he wasn't letting it go.

When my tremors subsided he was waiting. Cupping my body, holding me tight, doing a little shuddering of his own.

"No patience." He kissed the corner of one eye, then the little hollow between my jawbone and my ear. "None a'tall."

He eased me onto my side, rearranging our legs so we were lying on our sides, spoon fashion, pressing back into me as my back arched in protest.

"I'm sleepy." I mumbled, hissing as the sensation threatened to become tinged with pain. And I was, drowsy with ecstasy and tingles and stars that were glittering behind my eyelids.

His response was to slide his index and middle finger on either side of my clit and rub the skin there, immediately producing goose bumps as the recently stimulated skin responded.

He hummed with the radio again as he pushed into me slowly, and with equal pace and rhythm, pulled almost all the way out, before easing himself back him.

And I, with the bend of a cello bow, bowed and bent with every centimeter taken and freely given. Felt his hot hand on my hip, listened for his soft gasps behind me, smelled the cologne and the country on his skin as he flew me off over the moon once more.

I tipped my head back and watched as his lashes fluttered and then shut tightly as he came, hands momentarily tightening too hard on my body, before easing. Saw the tick on his left cheek, a dimple twitching as he came silently, with the exception of a blissful sigh.

Saw his lips purse and tilt until they met the curve of my cheek as I swayed back against him, as he rocked me still.

Wondered if the stars shined as bright behind his eyelashes as they did mine.

Jasper had always been a bit of a mystery, a decidedly stony wall behind a charming and expressive face.

I felt like I knew the kind of man he was though.

When he was a man who was yours, he was yours until the days the stars fell out of the sky. And when he said you were his, he meant that from tips of the curls at his temple, to the soles of his pinkie toes.

And now those pinkie toes were mine.

Eventually he opened his eyes, and we sprawled in our cozy nest of blankets that smelled of hay, watching the stars and trying to get up the energy to drive back to the ranch.

In the distance a cow mooed.

I giggled to myself and felt his smile burrow into my neck.


	4. Dissension in the Ranks

A/N: So this was initially an experiement, mostly because I adored the Emmett POV in this chapter, but everyone else? Meh. Also, this chapter needed to start moving the plot along. It wasn't my best and has been rewritten and added into The Elite.

"_**Someday I want to be rich. Some people get so rich they lose all respect for humanity. That's how rich I want to be.**__**"**_

EmPOV

In theory fucking Rosalie Hale should be like winding a clock. Put in the key, wind her up, and let her go and ding, dong, ding. Repeat as needed. Sex in a punctual, easy manner.

And I was a guy that appreciated ease.

In reality, fucking Rosalie Hale was like trying to wrestle a panther. I got hissed at, bruised, and eight identical rakes down my back from her claws.

And she wasn't the one who ended up pinned, either.

I daily tackle two-hundred pound guys in various states of armor, but I was sore after a single bout of hide the salami with the satanic she-beast.

Clearly she had won this round. Hell, she had all but schooled me in the ways of manipulation and then proceeded to come on my cock like a train was a coming.

Which, if it wasn't so fucking hot, would be downright infuriating.

She had stormed out of whatever class I had picked up just so I could see both of their asses (literally and figuratively) at the same time during the school day, and then texted me less than two minutes later, demanding I come see her as soon as school let out.

I texted her back reminding her about practice and got no response back.

That should have been my first fucking clue. Instead I showered quickly and hightailed it over to Whitlock.

"It's open."

Clue number two: Rosalie Hale had manners. She would have opened the door if she had been anything other than fucking naked, and maybe even then.

And she _was_ naked. Naked and on the tiny, little camp bed in the sitting room, sprawled out and reading some thick novel that I know wasn't assigned in American Lit, probably just for show.

I stared and she raised an eyebrow at me.

"What do you want?"

"That, dumbass, should be patently obvious."

"But-"

"Stop talking. I can assure you I don't want to hear it. The only things I want to hear out of your mouth are 'fuck yes' and my name."

Let it never be said that Rosalie Hale did not live up to every egotistical, daddy's girl with a credit card, bad stereotype there was. It had to be a rough job to be that arrogant.

She tossed the book aside and stretched her arms above her head, her back arching, and two perfectly tweaked tits (because let's be serious—it wasn't cold in that room, which meant she pinched them just for show) arched as well as she exhaled and sat up on her knees.

From there, things deteriorated rapidly.

All the girls I had been with before (all two of them) had been more than content to let me do whatever the hell I wanted while they panted and pretend-moaned along, all the while knowing that my fumbling and thrusting was entirely focused on one thing: I wanted a fucking orgasm. I knew it, they knew it; it was just easier to pretend that we both thought it was so awesome, and then never ever mention it again.

Sure, I knew how to get a girl off; see example A, my success with Alice.

With my fingers.

It's a whole 'nother ballgame when you put a dick into the equation. Because when I'm in the midst of fucking, there's only one strand of thoughts in the world that my brain can process.

Thrust harder, deeper, faster, and come like one blissed out mother fucker.

I couldn't coordinate my thumb to find some girl's clit if my life and trust fund depended on it while I'm inside, much less worry about some myth women like to call the G-spot.

I'll find Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny smoking joints in a titty bar before I'll find that.

And I would have been perfectly willing to get Rosalie off before tossing her on her back, except that Rosalie seemed spectacularly disinterested in foreplay. And considering that I'm a sixteen year old guy willing to even attempt foreplay, is surprising.

But no, Rosalie shoves me on my back, rolls on a condom (where was she hiding _that_?) and pops herself right on my cock like its not big thing.

This does not make me feel very good about the number of guys she's plowed through in the past year.

She's bouncing up and down and her tits look great and it feels fucking amazing on my cock, but my manly pride is wounded.

I attempt to take control, trying to roll her over so I'm on top.

This is the part when her short, jagged nails make a fucking tic-tac-toe board out of the skin on my back as she puts her foot down on the bed and refuses to be rolled. Her bouncing gets jerky and harsh and I let out a grunt that sounds suspiciously like "fuck yes."

Rosalie's smile is unbearable.

I yank her over to my side, my cock falling out of her and she shrieks as we tumble off the shitty single bed and onto the wooden floor.

She slaps at me as she tries to untangle herself from beneath my body, wriggling and rubbing all over my poor, abused cock.

I grit out her name and stop fighting it. I want to come so fucking badly I don't care that she's pussy-whipping me into submission.

She rides me and fingers herself while I hang on by a thread so perilous, I'm literally incapable of thrusting, of moving, of doing anything but watch as she flushes pinks and arches, her nails digging into my pecs this time as she comes and triggers an orgasm that would have killed a lesser man.

She rolls off immediately, not even letting me enjoy the tremors of a softened, warm, oh so fucking tight, post-orgasmic Rosalie. She's gratifyingly a little bit shaky on her legs as she picks her book off the floor and disappears into her room, shutting the door with a soft but definite click.

I lay there, pants around my fucking ankles like the stupid-fucker I am, and wonder if this is how those other two girls felt when I finished fucking them.

It was a little like surviving a hurricane.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

APOV

So Emmett told me he wanted me, but he's in my room fucking Rosalie. Rosalie told me we all had to follow the rules, but she's breaking them to prove to Edward she isn't an elitist, self-centered bitch. Edward told me he wanted me, but that he lost a freaking _coin flip_ to Emmett.

Life is truly rough when you have to flip a coin over sex.

And here I was, sitting in the library, wondering how much time truly was appropriate to give two people to have sex before I could return to my room and hide under the covers.

Hide from Emmett, because I fucking begged him to have sex with me. Hide from Rosalie because I didn't want to hear the details about her sexual encounter with Emmett. Hide from Edward, because I was either going to smack him for being a jackass to Rosalie, or beg him to have sex with me because I was feeling rejected and betrayed.

Revenge sex. I was still a virgin and already I was plotting to have revenge sex. What had this school done to me? Who did I think I was? Rosalie Hale? Scheming so Emmett would feel jealous? So Rosalie would feel even worse about herself that Edward wasn't asking me to fulfill the part of the top loaf of his Edward Cullen sandwich?

The smart thing to do would be to pull out.

The smart thing to do would be to go home to Mississippi where people didn't have ulterior motives or reputations at stake.

The smart thing to do would be to move out of Rose's suite, dye my hair back to its mousy brown color, and pretend I never met anyone named Rosalie Hale, Emmett McCarty, or Edward Cullen.

"Hey baby."

Or Jackson Whitlock.

I kept my eyes on my book, expecting to smell Bulgari cologne and hair products, expecting to see black designer boots and a disheveled uniform shirt from beneath my eyelashes..

"Hey Jax! I had a good time at the party…and after."

My head shot up, all thoughts of ignoring him thrown out the window. There was nothing to ignore; he hadn't been hitting on me.

I never would have guessed that perky, little girl voice would belong to the deep-throated moaner from the bathroom.

But there she was, tall and brunette with fluttery eyelashes and dark eyeliner. Beneath her library table I could see an extraordinary amount of bare leg.

And she was wearing heels.

Nobody wore heels with their uniform. There was no point. It wasn't just trashy, it practically screamed, "I should be on a pole (or car) dancing to Motley Crue records."

But there they were, white (white!) open-toes shoes with a big heel. She'd tower over me in those suckers.

Jax was leaning over the table toward her and she was leaning into him, her mouth open in a soft, almost orgasmic 'o'. I rolled my eyes.

Godzilla wasn't very subtle.

Said the girl who outright uttered the words "fuck me" several times to her jock of a….whatever he was. Fuck buddy certainly wouldn't cut it.

"So I was thinking, the Shark Tank is having a live band this weekend in town, you should meet me there."

That southern drawl rolled to my ears and I felt tingles run through me. I'd have sex with that accent, just not with the personality attached to it.

I heard Godzilla cheerfully assure him that she would do just that and Jax sauntered off.

He didn't even notice me sitting there.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

JaxPOV

Alice…fuck! I didn't even remember her last name. Alice somebody, will be the death of me.

She humiliated me at a party, even though we were alone when it happened. She ran off with McCarty and now she's hanging out in some little group with Lucas Hale's little sister and Edward Cullen. McCarty's cool, we both box (obviously not each other) during the winter, but he's not better than _me_. He's certainly not the better choice between the two of us.

She dug me. I could see it. Her little virgin eyes and fuck—those lips—she fucking had cock sucking lips and they were nowhere near my cock. For all I knew and had been hearing, they were on _both_ McCarty and Cullen's cocks.

God damn, that was hot.

And frustrating.

It's because she's tiny. Tiny fingers, tiny waist, tiny little gestures that made me want to see how much she could take. How that little throat would react to having a cock in there, how much dick she could sit on, how much solid headboard-banging, could she take?

I had a thing for tiny chicks. You could toss them around, bend them over, your cock looked twice as big enclosed in tiny little hands. Tiny chicks were made for some seriously kinky shit.

If I wanted to wrestle while I was trying to have sex, I'd either go out for the sport or tap the infield of the girls' softball team.

I had just gotten laid last night and I had never walked away so disgusted with the chick I had banged. Tail was tail, but apparently Alice Brandon (there it was) would be my crowning set of antlers, the trophy to my industrious career at Olaf's, the angel-faced pixie girl I'd teach to be a freak.

But before she could do any of that, she had to realize what she was missing.

So I dug back to my fifth grade roots and ignored the shit outta her while eye-fucking some skanky freshman.

I figured pulling her pigtails was regressing just a bit too far.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

RPOV

I tossed aside Alice's copy of Paradise Lost and shrugged into my robe, sliding onto my bed and clicking open the browser on my laptop.

The page was still up and I began taking notes furiously as I carefully studied the pictures and corresponding text on the website. I tilted my head and tried to ignore the thrumming I felt in my veins. I'd been staring at this all afternoon, and combined with the recent sex-acrobatics McCarty felt the need to pull while attempting (not well I might add) to prove his male dominance, I was feeling a bit dizzy.

I shook myself out of that little memory and focused on the webpage in front of me.

I was going to be the best goddamn dyke Edward Cullen had ever seen.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

EPOV

I eyed the shadowy footage with disinterest. Where had Rosalie gotten a hold of such damning footage…and who the hell allowed themselves to be videotaped ranting against the majority of the social princesses and princes of the school?

A stoned person, that's who.

The footage was fuzzy and before I started messing with the tape, almost inaudible.

Now you could hear what she was saying, loud and clear.

"Sadie Vialpando once told Liz Opelt's mom that Liz was a frequent shoplifter, just so Sadie could get Liz's boyfriend alone at one of those lame-ass closet parties where everyone gets paired off to fool around. Course Sadie slept with Jeremiah and gave him a severely unfortunate case of VD, which Jeremiah later gave to Liz. Liz still doesn't know that it was Sadie who he cheated with and gave her the clap. Stupid cow can't see anything beyond her new nose."

The glossy-eyed girl swayed in her seat on the camera, giggling and inhaling on the roach that was barely big enough not to burn her fingers.

A deep male voice in the background grumbled something unintelligible and the girl almost felt over she was laughing so hard. Tears were leaking down her cheeks as she smiled beautifully into the camera.

"That's right. My mother _is_ a former Miss America. That's how she met my dad. He was one of the judges. She found out a week after the pageant that she was knocked up. Had to have a secret abortion, but not before she blackmailed my father into putting a rock on her finger the size of Somali."

Then came the hysterical laughter again and I shook my head at the poor, completely cabbaged girl who was willingly giving up every secret, family or otherwise, she could think of.

And that was a ton; thirteen minutes of footage. Thirteen minutes of sexual encounters, including calling 's star cellist a "small-weinered fuck nugget," boob and nose jobs, piercing not seen under normal circumstances, embarrassing menstrual stories, and other insults that dated back to the first grade when Samantha DeLane insisted on being the first person to use the purple crayon (wax-eating whore).

I did my best to fix the blurriness as the probably stoned cameraman weaved and zoomed constantly. The audio was perfect, but seeing is believing.

And no one was going to believe what they saw when they received a video attachment tomorrow morning instead of the usual quarterly report from our esteemed student body president and almost definite ivy league graduate, Tanya Denali.

My fingers twitched once and then pressed send.

Now it was my turn to reap the benefits of our little agreement.


	5. Brought to You by the Letter G

A/N: So the following in Italics is part of a scene that I originally started and then got frustrated with, because I was trying to do some shower sex logistics with Em/A and encountered a severe case of the fail. I gave up the sex and instead wrote this rant to shower sex. After that, per Miztrezboo's request, is a little bit of Emmett's inner monologue (and physical interaction) with Alice and the element of water, because she is amazing and possibly the greatest makers of gif's on the planet.

Outttake: Brought to you by the letter G

_APOV_

_Standing up sex is entirely pointless when your boyfriend has roughly a foot on you. _

_Granted, if he wanted, Emmett could probably hold me up on his dick and bounce me up and down like a rag doll he's that jacked, but I would feel like I wasn't doing anything, like I was just worthless. _

_So I don't understand the shower sex compulsion._

_Oh, I understand the hot tub compulsion and the claw-footed bathtub compulsion, but shower sex? Shower sex in the group bathrooms in the boys' dormitory, or worse, the boys' locker room? _

_Ew._

_No thank you, I politely decline having to explain to my doctor why I have athlete's foot in my hoo-ha. _

_But sex in water…clean water, that seemed like a good idea. Being wet always looks good to people in the magazines, right? _

_Besides, we would be weightless in water, and Emmett would maybe temporarily forget his size complex when I got out of the water in my thin white shirt, with no bra underneath._

_And no, I don't know why I'm wearing my Olaf's shirt in my water fantasy, but I blame that movie with Neve Campbell and Denise Richards. _

_Fucking unrealistic expectations._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*

EPOV

Alice does small things because she is a small person. The way her hips are so narrow that they don't switch from side to side like the beating of bongo drums. It's more like…little finger cymbals or chimes as she moves to a quicker beat when she is walking to keep up with me, and slower when she is walking deep in thought and I must slow down for her.

The way her ears seem almost elf-like they are so small and funny-shaped. I know she hates them; she never tucks her hair behind her ears.

The arch of her foot in my hands seems breakable, and her bottom row of teeth look like they belong on an eight year old.

But the thing about Alice is that these small things, coming from this small person, practically echo. Her stride is graceful and confident, even if it is a bit short and she must hurry to keep up. I've caught Jasper's eyes dropping to her waist more than once when she is walking, assessing with some surprise the honky tonk butt that's hidden under the plaid.

The way her words, often said with a carefully peaceful exterior, make their point just as loudly as when she is screaming.

The way I get all girly and sentimental thinking about this shit when I should be thinking about bending her over this weight bench and watching us go at it in the floor to ceiling mirror.

She does this.

Watches me lift weights because I can't sleep until I'm completely and utterly physically exhausted, even though we both know I'm a pussy because I could be working out all my energy on her, except that she's so tiny.

I bench press more than she weighs, what would happen if I really went to work, really hammered out my frustrations and adrenaline and sexual energy on her?

My father is in the military; the 'never hit a woman' rule has been stitched on the inside of my skull.

Isn't leaving bruises on a woman's body from loving her the same thing?

So we sit in the weight room, which stinks of stale sweat and that weird, old leather smell from the benches and mats lying around the room. Alice sits high up in an old abs machine and mutters to herself in Spanish with a southern twang.

On nights when I know she has Spanish homework, I forego my IPod altogether because it's so damn cute I swear I'm growing a vagina.

Ew, vagina.

Who named it that? That sick fuck needs to be dragged out to a field and taught that the letter g makes absolutely NOTHING sound sexy. Seriously. The "juh" sound ruins everything.

I start with legs, as always, and if I'm really wound up, I go all the way through the circuit; cardio, legs, arms, abs, and cool down. My quads feel like jelly after a round of lunges and squats, but I have a staring contest with Alice while I do them in the mirror, and I wink and grin at her when she loses and just has to check out the pants.

And watching my girl eye my stuff? Does not help with the lunges.

Tonight I quit early.

I never quit. Another lesson in life not learned from Sesame Street, but instead by the army. Fight or die trying. A great thing to teach a four year old.

But tonight the army and my slightly scarring childhood are not forefront in my mind.

I'm watching Alice's foot bounce up and down in her grey St. Olaf's sweats, textbook forgotten in her lap.

Her hair is wet because she went running with Rosalie after school and when it's wet, it kind of does some funky curl thing at the ends before it dries and gets really frizzy and static-ky.

"We've only been here for twenty-five minutes." She helpfully points out; clearly telling me her mind was not on her task at hand either.

"I need a shower."

"You're barely sweating."

"Alice. I need a shower."

"So go. And make sure you wear your flip flops. There's mold from the dark ages in those showers."

Well. Way to kill the mood Alice.

I sighed. "What are the odds you'll let me fuck you in the shower?"

Might as well be blunt. Alice could sniff out half-truths like a bloodhound.

Her eyes narrowed to slits. She would look absolutely fucking hot in a pair of black-framed glasses.

And apparently I have a nerd fetish.

Weird.

"There are no odds unless you want to wrap me up in a bio-hazard suit."

I bit my lip.

Apparently my dick thought bio-hazard was pretty good dirty talk.

Z was a sexy letter. That had to be it.

"Back to the dorms?"

"Mike is in your room and Rose is in mine."

"So kick her out."

"Ah! Kick Mike out!"

I couldn't. Guy had already been manhandled by my lady once, twice was just mean.

I sighed. Leave it to Rosalie Hale to find a way to give me blue balls without being in the vicinity of said balls.

"Classroom?"

Alice rolled her eyes.

"Practice room?"

"Edward would murder us with his bare hands if we put a single mark on his piano."

"Lake?"

"Again, with the desire to attract multiple diseases via water."

"Well, how about the pool then? There are even chlorine tablets to make sure it's clean."

Alice eyed me with some interest.

Bingo.

And that's how we ended up using one of Edward's keys to sneak into the pool after hours, in the complete dark, stubbing our toes and swearing like sailors until we hurriedly stripped off our clothes and stood, butt naked, staring at the depth of water in front of us.

"It looks cold."

I rolled my eyes.

"It's water Alice. Can we please just—"

And then her tiny little hands were on my ass and I was falling.

Crack.

Face first into the water.

Fuuuck.

It was cold.

And my dick thought so too.

Note to self. Sex in water must require heated water.

I surfaced, coughing and wheezing and 'brrring' fit to wake the dead and Alice was standing there, naked with her hands on her hips, looking doubtfully down at me.

"Don't make me chase you around this pool and throw you in." Because that would mean I'd be running when I was wet and shriveled and so entirely cliché that it would make me sick.

I just wanted my girl to be wet and on my dick, who knew it would take this much work?

Actually, what I really wanted was to pin her down in my bed and give it to her so hard and so deep we'd both be sore and exhausted for days, just thinking about the epic fucking we had done. I wanted to bury myself inside all that energy and wear her out. I wanted to have my tongue in her mouth and my cock in her body and I wanted to use her until she screamed herself hoarse.

I wanted a lot of things. And Alice loved to tempt me, but I held back. Whether it was because of embarrassment or fear or self-consciousness about wanting something so damn badly and having to say it out loud before I just hopped on and started humping the hell out of her, I kept quiet.

Because I could damage her.

And because it would just be too damn telling.

Everything I wanted from Alice, it stemmed out from sex. In class, at lunch, hell even when we just hanging out, I couldn't express just how sprung I was on her. Her smile, her crazy tiny ears, her even crazier tiny feet, her laugh, her resilience—I'd sound like some kind of stalker. Or love sick idiot, I'm not sure which I'd rather be.

So Imma fuck my girl in the water, which is this sick, perverse urge that I'm sure one hundred percent of males jack off to, and pretend its about fulfilling any latent Denise Richard/Neve Campbell fantasies I had.

It's not about that.

It's about wanting to do as much with her while I've got her.

Just in case.

Just in case someday she breaks up with me, or we have to move apart, so some crazy high school drama shit splits us up.

I want to be the one who has her firsts.

I may not have been her first, due to the aforementioned high school bullshit that resulted in Cullen doing a job I probably would have chickened out about anyway, but I was her first orgasm.

That's probably way more important than first fuck in girl world.

I want to be her first water fuck.

Her first outdoor fuck.

Her first everything.

I want to be her first love, if she'll let me.

Yeah, I told you I was sprung.

So I hoist myself up one of the steps on the side of the pool and reach out my hand, still half in the chilly water.

Alice eyes it and closes her hand in mine.

Tiny.

Each bone can be felt clearly and if I squeeze too hard, her knuckles shift together and she yelps.

The fine craftsmanship of her wrist also fits in my palm, at the edges of my fingertips as I pull her closer to the pool.

I want her to be under me.

I want her to inside of me, just as much as I get to be inside of her.

She takes a step down, reaching the highest step on the ladder. Her ankles and calves are distorted by the dark water, but so white I can see them from above the surface.

She shivers.

I make a silent promise to keep her warm.

She's looking at me, smirking, reading that promise in my face.

She catches me sometimes, thinking those girly thoughts.

It always brings the best smile to her face.

I smile back and wrap an arm around her waist, bringing her down, despite her protests into the water and reveling in the almost magical touch of her wet body against mine.

As we move she clings and slithers against me. Her nipples are hard as rocks and she's got goose bumps everywhere.

And I can't help but kiss her, legs around my waist, body sealing itself to mine, springing forth heat that neither of us can explain because we're both chattering with the cold.

More goose bumps.

"Oh." Alice purrs and kisses my neck. Then she blinks.

"You taste like chlorine."

I debated telling her it was better than sweat, but kept quiet as she kissed my ear and over to my jaw, ending with my lips.

Her nose was still crinkled.

"If my vagina gets icicles on it, I will be severely pissed."

"God! Alice! You know I hate that word."

"Well I hate water sex. Water sex is overrated." Alice chirps as she hoists herself further up my body, hands using my shoulders to support herself. Her nipples peak out above surface and then disappear as she splashes water inadvertently.

"What about water orgasms? Those overrated?" I tease, one hand reaching down to rub one knuckle across that spot she likes so much.

"N-no." And her heels press into my ass, telling me how much she doesn't think they're overrated.

I do my own taste test, indeed tasting the water instead of skin, almost slimy in mouth, but the sensation of her wet body is too good to care that's weird.

Alice brings my face up to hers, as she is situated above me per usual, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth and determinedly kissing me until I'm out of air and more than a little hard.

I place her hand underwater and she closes around it, slick and yet firm, as we prepare ourselves with barely audible breaths of air.

"It's like your hand's there, but it isn't. Like a ghost." Alice sighs to me through lazy-lidded eyes and her breath is getting faster. If I'm not careful, she'll go over the edge and drown.

There would be worse ways to go I suppose.

I remove my fingers and press my dick against her, rubbing her clit.

"Can you feel this?" I grin and she can't even manage looking indignant.

"Either fuck me with it or get out of the pool McCarty. I'm trying to have overrated water sex here." She sputtered and I groaned.

My girl knew what talking like that did to me.

It was cliché, but it worked. Not to mention I could tell she meant it.

She wanted me.

She had me.

My first try was met with our bodied colliding and me slipping away from her.

The second try resulted in even more slippery results and I grunted in frustration.

Then I was in and we both sighed.

It was like having sex with a ghost.

She was in my hands, but the weight I was used to supporting was not there.

I was inside of her, but I could still feel the water all over my body.

We were moving, but it more that the water was moving us like a gentle wave than the usual thrust and squirm together tighter than I was used to her.

I missed her weight.

I missed thrusting into her.

I missed her pressing further down.

I missed being dry and in my bed.

Maybe she was right.

Water sex was overrated.

But I cupped her cheeks in my hand anyway and kissed her deep and let her wriggle and crash into my chest as we gasped and pushed, pulled and exhaled.

When the end came for me, she was already done and clamped onto me, clutching me for dear life, fingernails digging into my shoulders as she fought for purchase.

She was weightless and flying.

And I wanted to follow.

I shoved myself in as deep as I could go and let go; sinking almost entirely beneath surface as Alice yelped and lost her grip on me. I saw her legs kick out in surprise and then remember the motions of swimming as her hand tugged me by the hair, keeping me above water.

I breathed hard as she grasped me by the ears and kissed me soundly, using one arm to bring us to the edge of the pool of her own volition.

I was useless, still reeling.

I loved that she did that to me.

Every time.

Water or no water.

She hauled one arm over the edge of the pool and began to pull herself over the edge before we drowned one another.

I watched the round globes of my girl's ass appear and grinned like an idiot.

If that was the visual I was blessed with, I'd have sex in a body of water, contaminated or no, once a day happily for the rest of my life.

Alice stood with no small amount of trouble and turned to look at me.

"There aren't any towels." She eyed her clothes and cringed, clearly not relishing the idea of putting them on while dripping with water.

I pushed myself out of the pool and pushed some of her wet hair back to kiss those elfish ears of hers. I lingered there.

"I'll keep you warm."

I couldn't tell her all those thoughts that floated through my head on a daily basis. I couldn't find words for what happened when I got lucky enough to have sex with her.

But I could make that promise and keep it, even if the rest would have to go left unsaid.


End file.
